The ceremony was sunlit and simple. Lizzie was a barefoot bridesmaid in her best summer dress. The priest stood on the terrace and intoned the magic spell. The sunshine filtered through the pines and the tamarisks, and the Bosphorus ferry hooted as it crossed the deep blue waters to Asia. And the singers sang and Rob kissed Christine and then it was done: they were married. Rob was wived, again.
There was a party afterwards. They all had lots of champagne in the garden, and Ezekiel chased a golden butterfly into the rosebushes. Steve chatted with Christine, Christine’s mum chatted with the priest, and everyone danced very badly to the bouzouki players. Kiribali quoted poetry and flirted with all the women, especially the older ones.
Halfway through the afternoon, Rob found himself standing next to Forrester, in the shade of the trees at the very edge of the lawns. Rob took the chance to thank the detective, at last: for turning a blind eye.
Forrester blushed, his champagne glass poised at his lips. ‘How did you guess?’
‘You’re an astute guy, Mark. You let us just walk off with the Black Book. That’s why you were arguing with Dooley, in Dublin. No?’
‘Sorry?
‘You knew where we were going. You wanted to cut us some slack, and you persuaded Dooley to let us keep the box.’
Forrester sighed. ‘I suppose I did. And yes I knew where you were heading. But I couldn’t blame you, Rob. I’d have done the same, if…if a child of mine had been in danger. Taking the official route might have been disastrously slow.’
‘Yet you rang Kiribali just in time. So I really mean it. Thanks for…keeping an eye on us.’ Now Rob was struggling for words. A fleeting and terrible image of Cloncurry, white teeth bared, passed through his mind. ‘I just dread to think,’ he added, ‘what would have happened if you hadn’t got involved.’
Forrester knocked back some of his champagne, and nodded. ‘How is she?’
‘Lizzie? She’s amazing. She seems to have, basically, forgotten it all. A little frightened of the dark. Think that was the hood.’
‘But no other traumas?’
‘No…’ Rob shrugged. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘The charm of being five years old,’ said Forrester. ‘Kids can bounce back. If they survive.’
The conversation dwindled. Rob looked at the dance party at the far end of Isobel’s lawns. Kiribali was leaping up and down, clapping; doing a sort of impromptu Cossack dance.
Forrester nodded in Kiribali’s direction. ‘He’s the man you should be thanking.’
‘You mean the shooting?’
‘I heard all about it. Incredible.’
‘Apparently he was an Olympic marksman or something. Expert shot.’
‘But it was crucial, yes?’
‘Yes,’ Rob agreed. ‘Kiribali could see how far away Cloncurry was, and they couldn’t reach us in time, because of the floods. So he took out his hunting rifle…’
The music was boisterous. The bouzouki players were really going for it. Rob drained the last of his champagne.
The two men walked back towards the wedding party. As they did, Lizzie came running over, laughing and singing. Rob leaned down and tenderly stroked his daughter’s shining hair; the little girl giggled and reached for her father’s hand.
Gazing at the father and the daughter, strolling hand in hand, smiling and alive, Forrester felt a stab of sharp emotion: the usual grief and regret. But his sense of loss was touched by something else, something much more surprising: the faint and fleeting shadow of happiness.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank Klaus Schmidt, and the rest of the German Archaeological Institute at Gobekli Tepe; my editors and colleagues Ed Grenby, David Sutton, Andrew Collins and Bob Cowan; everyone at William Morris London – in particular my agent Eugenie Furniss; and Jane Johnson from HarperCollins UK.
I would also like to thank my daughter Lucy – for still recognizing me, after I disappeared for several months to write this book.
Tom Knox
Tom Knox is the pseudonym of the author Sean Thomas. Born in England, he has travelled the world writing for many different newspapers and magazines, including The Times, the Guardian, and the Daily Mail. His last book was a memoir, translated into eight languages; he also writes on art, politics and ancient history. He lives in London.
